Ramblings from travels to the interior and exterior

On the Delicacy of Fossils

I’m working on my bed and finding it very difficult to concentrate given the unrelenting blueness of the sky and the persistent sighing of the trees.

It’s a beautiful moment—not so beautiful that the instant gets lost in anesthesizing sentimentality, but beautiful enough to soothe the generalized suffering of life just a little.

(I wonder how many of our days, our moths, our years, get rescued by odd, anonymous moments like these. The details themselves eventually blur; all that’s left is a hazy memory of things being strangely all right.)

And what is writing if not an attempt to fossilize experience? (To etch an imprint, an outline, a trace of the living body of a moment.)

And now that I’ve preserved the moment for posterity, I’m going back to enjoy it.